The Bottom of the Jar Read Free Page B

expressed her satisfaction.
    The conversation began with a formal exchange of information, each party having conveyed the questions they wanted answered in great detail beforehand. Nevertheless, the official answers were no less intriguing. Accordingly, Ghita glibly maintained that our family – on my father’s side – was also related to the Prophet. That we were descended from the sharif of Jbel el Alam, whose shrine was still venerated in the country of the Beni Arouss. Whereas her family was originally from Andalusia, which I can confirm, and still possessed the key to the house where they had lived before the Muslims were expelled from that land, which rightfully belonged to Islam. In her version of the story, my father, a humble artisan in the Sekkatine souk, had been promoted to the status of a merchant, whom God had showered His blessings on. If this was the case, why did he not then enjoy the title of haji? The reply was simply: Health problems had prevented him from making the pilgrimage to Mecca the year before. But he will do so next year, inshallah!
    Having finally arrived to the topic of my brother, Ghita rose to the art of the panegyric. From a mere office clerk, he had become a high-level manager of the Department of Postal Services and Telecommunications. There wasn’t a letter – or especially a money order – that reached its destination without first passing through his hands. It was he who was in charge of the teeleephoone . With expert knowledge of French and a handful of English words, he was presented as a polyglot genius who spoke a balbal of seven languages fluently. To conclude, Ghita began to list his more conventional qualities: He lacked nothing, neither respectability, nor youth, nor beauty. Nor kindness for that matter, nor reserve, respect for his parents, and faith in God. While recitinghis praises, she curiously omitted his time in prison. Clueless about politics, she must have assumed that prison was just prison, and that it was nothing to brag about. And, as if chasing that unpleasant memory from her mind, she threw herself into lyricism: “The light shines on his face. May God keep him – and your daughter too – from the evil eye.”
    Having thus cleverly engineered a transition in the conversation, she asked point-blank, “By the way, where is the little darling?”
    â€œShe’s coming,” her mother replied. “We are going to drink some tea that she herself has prepared – you’ll see, whatever she touches, turns to gold.”
    As if she had been waiting for just that signal, Lalla Zineb appeared, carrying a tray of tea that she placed at her mother’s feet before taking a seat in front of my mother. Ghita’s eyes lit up, scrutinizing her from top to bottom and back again. A strange smile formed on her lips, the very same expression I had often seen adults make when a pretty woman passes them in the street.
    The tea had barely been poured when Ghita took the initiative.
    â€œWhy, I’ve forgotten something – may death forget us – I’ve brought some walnuts, and some dates – may our days be as sweet as they are.”
    And hoping to gain the upper hand in her future relationship with her daughter-in-law, she turned directly to Lalla Zineb.
    â€œGo and put them on a plate, my daughter.”
    The young girl did as she was told. A moment later, she had meticulously arranged the fruits and nuts on a plate of china, decorated in the taous style and adorned with a peacock. Encouraged to help herself, Ghita disdained the sweetness of the dates and instead chose a large nut, which she held out to Lalla Zineb.
    â€œWould you open it for me, my darling? I have no teeth left to speak of, while yours – thanks be to God – should be intact.”
    Faced with such an unseemly question, Lalla Zineb seemed to hesitate.Aware of this subterfuge – the “nut test” being a means by